HP and the Fictional Heroes World Championships
by justanothermuggle
Summary: Hermione informs Harry that he's been invited to participate in the Fictional Heroes World Championships, promising him a tempting opportunity to do something to downplay his hero-status.


_A/N When you read this story, you might suspect justanothermuggle had a run-in with Mundungus Fletcher, who happened to slip him some tobacco spiked with Venomous Tentacula (which isn't a banned substance by Muggle law, since Muggles don't know of its existence). If there wasn't this tiny detail that ol' Dung is a fictional character, it'd be a very likely explanation. In his defence, justanothermuggle can only claim a severely warped sense of humour. Editor and co-whacko for this story is siledubhghlase/ghostchicken. Thank you for your amazing editing skill and equally-warped sense of humour._

_There's a Skrewtload of copyrighted characters in this story spanning movies, comic books, and the obvious—the Harry Potter Universe. They each belong to their respective creators/owners, brilliant people all. I've only written this story because I had a good time doing it and I posted it in the hopes that you'll find it as entertaining to read as I did to write. The only thing that is mine is the plot and there's not a single Knut involved one way or the other._

**Harry Potter and the Fictional Heroes World Championships**

"Hermione, could you explain that to me once again," Harry asked, his brow drawn in annoyed confusion.

Hermione sighed heavily and rubbed the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger. "One more time—you've been invited to participate in _The Fictional Heroes World Championships_, and I think it's a great opportunity for you, Harry."

"First of all, Hermione, I don't understand the first thing about what this Championship is all about. Second, I loathe anything that adds to this ridiculous hero-worship I'm a victim of just because I defeated old Tom. Third, I got that part the first time, and I'm still waiting for an explanation as to why I should even consider entering."

"Let's say that if you should win this competition, it'd be the ultimate downplay of your heroics—something you live for."

Harry looked distrustfully at Hermione, since winning some wonky heroes championship hardly translated to the downplaying of the alleged heroics that caused him to be invited in the first place. "A very simple question: _Why,_" Harry huffed.

"I'm glad you asked, Harry. You see, there were a few things I wanted to sort out, so I went...

"…to the library…" Harry urged, to emphasise the unnecessary by stating the obvious.

"…to the library," Hermione continued, as if she hadn't heard Harry's remark. "I found some very interesting books there."

"Stop! It's…it's impossible! Hermione found some _interesting _books in the _library? _Like that could ever happen," Harry interrupted with sarcastic awe.

"Do you want me to explain or not," Hermione snapped haughtily. Knowing an argument would elicit a lecture, Harry nodded. "Fine, then. It was a series of seven books mentioning you quite a lot. You should read them."

Harry rolled his eyes. "I'm mentioned in _loads _of books, Hermione. I even remember some of the titles—_Hogwarts: A History, Modern Magical History, The Rise and Fall of Dark Arts_—and I've never read a single one of them and I don't intend to, which is something I take great pride in, by the way. What's one more?"

"Honestly," she huffed. Harry's and Ron's lack of interest in anything remotely informative that didn't have anything to do with duelling or Quidditch drove her up the wall. But she'd lived with it for this long… "These seven books really give a whole new perspective to our entire existence," Hermione said, with a hint of annoyance in her voice.

"Enduring Professor Binns' classes did that too. So what's your point," Harry asked, quite eager to put an end to this discussion.

"What if I told you we're nothing more than the product of someone's imagination," Hermione said, as matter-of-factly as she could.

"I'd be really worried that you'd either been possessed by Professor Trelawney, or that you've smoked a few Venomous Tentacula leaves," Harry snorted. _She needs a holiday_.

Hermione stomped her foot in anger. "Harry, can't you be serious... And don't even think about cracking a Sirius/serious-joke or I'll hex you to Grimmauld Place and back."

Harry raised his hands in defence. "Sorry, Hermione. I'm listening... A whole new perspective on our existence. See," he said. "I was able to repeat what you just said."

She sighed once again in frustration, but decided to soldier on, rather than point out her surrogate brother's snarky attitude. "You see, Harry, we're _fictional_, and all we know has been dreamed up by a Muggle author."

"But the Muggles don't know about us," Harry argued. "How could a Muggle author write anything about us, fictional or otherwise?"

Hermione scratched her head. _This could take a while_. She fixed an enthusiastic gaze on Harry, intent upon drawing him into her glee. "I can prove it. We don't know anything about…_anything_…unless she made it up."

"Really," Harry said ironically. "Does this Muggle author have a name?"

Hermione didn't give up. "Yes, Harry. Her name is Joanne Kathleen Rowling, but that's not important. What is important is that she is our creator—kind of like our ruling goddess."

"Hermione, this is getting barmier by the minute," Harry began to snicker. "A Muggle author is responsible for our world? Now I get to say it—_honestly!_"

"Fine," Hermione snarked. "What are my parents' names?"

Harry looked at her and cocked his head to one side. "Granger...hell, I don't know. You never told me—us," Harry said. "That proves absolutely nothing. What _are _their names?"

"That's the point, Harry. _I _don't even know," Hermione smiled.

"C'mon, Hermione. This is barking," Harry said, shaking his head with a loud sigh. "And no puns about Snuffles!"

"All I know are the names I gave them when I sent them to Australia, Wendell and Monica Wilkins. Other than that, they're simply Mr and Mrs Granger."

"So? Your brilliant memory charms backfired a bit," Harry reasoned. "At least you have parents, Hermione."

"Harry, I—"

"Never mind," Harry said. "I know you didn't mean anything by it. But seriously, Hermione, I'm getting a headache here. Can we go back to this championship you want me to participate in?"

Hermione gave up on her attempts to convince Harry that they were the figment of a Muggle author's imagination. Instead, she decided to explain why earning himself the championship title would be the ultimate downplay of his heroics. "All right, then. Just trust me on the whole figment-of-the-imagination thingy, okay," Hermione said, switching into lecture-mode.

_Oh, here it comes_. Harry knew he was stuck. There was no way he was going to wiggle out of this one, so he just settled into his chair and let her rant. "G'on, then."

"It means that your every heroic act is or was just one woman's collective fantasy—the more heroic the act, the greater the fantasy. If you should win this title, you would be the greatest fictional hero to have achieved the most-amazing fictional heroics in the world. That means you've done absolutely nothing real, but you've still given countless people hope. It's a good thing, Harry. It'll really make a difference."

"A difference, but you say it's not real," Harry tried to reason. "I think you should apply for a transfer to the Department of Mysteries. You'd fit right in. But you're going to have to do better than that if you mean to convince me to even _consider _participating in this championship."

Hermione realised she had to appeal to something Harry could comprehend and appreciate.

"Well…Ginny'd shag you silly if you won," she smirked.

"There," Harry smiled. "Ginny and I have a very healthy sex life, thanks, but I like the sound of being shagged silly."

"So you'll do it?"

"Shag Ginny? Hell yes," Harry grinned. "It's my favourite pastime!"

Hermione whacked him on the back of the head with her book. "The championships, you prat..." Hermione huffed.

"Oh that? Sure. Sounds like fun."

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Harry held Ginny closely in a full-on fictionally-heroic snog, his hands buried in her flaming locks and under her jumper, when Hermione approached them whilst Ron occupied himself by checking out all the fast-food restaurants around the same stadium where the 1994 Quidditch World Cup match had taken place.

"All right, you two. We need to take a look at Harry's first opponent," Hermione announced, tapping one and then the other on their shoulders. Reluctantly, the happy couple broke apart and glared at Hermione. Unaffected, she continued. "I'm really excited about this one and I have some important information for you."

"All right, Hermione," Harry sighed, still holding Ginny close.

"Well, he's capable of some low-level magic—basic levitation, some weak form of Legilimency, summoning—nothing a first-year couldn't do. His main weapon is a pretty nasty thing, though. It's called a _light sabre_, and it can cut through anything—and I mean _anything_—like a hot knife through butter. He goes by the name of Luke Skywalker…and he's a fully-fledged Jedi."

"Jedi," Harry asked. "Hagrid never mentioned them. What kind of creature is that?"

"That's because he's not a creature—he's human. The Jedi—more-specifically, Jedi _Knights_—are essentially quasi-magical warriors," Hermione explained. "But don't worry, Harry. You'll beat him easily. And if you can get it away from him, I'd love to have his light sabre."

"Why," Harry asked curiously.

"They make a really cool sound when their swung about—a really wicked hum—and I'd be able to cut and toast bread simultaneously with it. It's the ultimate toaster."

"Sure, Hermione," Harry snickered. "Anything else?"

"No." Hermione concluded. "That's all."

A few minutes later, Harry stood at the centre of the arena opposite a rather good-looking young man in an odd-looking sort of tan and brown robe ensemble. A commentator introduced the two of them to the audience, comprised of all manner of odd creatures, humans, and hominid beings.

"Welcome, friends, to the first ever Fictional Heroes World Championships! Our first match shall be between the wizard, Harry James Potter of Great Britain, vanquisher of dark wizards and their minions, and Master Luke Skywalker, Jedi Knight from A Galaxy Far, Far Away, vanquisher of dark Sith Lords and their apprentices. May the best man win!"

Skywalker and Harry bowed slightly to one another as it seemed like the thing to do. Harry dropped his outer robe, revealing his black Auror fatigues, while the Jedi dropped his brown outer robe revealing a tan tunic and trousers. Harry drew his wand whilst the other man pulled out a handle from a belt around his waist. It was about the length of a wand, but metal and thicker. With a hissing sound, a bright green blade emerged. Skywalker swung it around as he approached Harry.

"Expelliarmus! Stupefy," Harry barked, waving and flicking his Holly-and-Phoenix-feather wand at the Jedi warrior.

Luke did what he was trained to do, and tried to deflect the blast Harry shot at him with his light sabre, the same way he did when someone fired a blaster at him. This was obviously a disastrous choice, since, unbeknownst to him, Harry's first spell was a disarming spell. The light sabre tore from Luke's grasp and shut down as it flew to Harry's hand at the same time the stunner slammed into him.

Next to Hermione, Ginny and Ron in the stands, a dark-haired man wearing a white shirt and black vest shook his head in amused disbelief. Next to him sat a huge furry creature with a sort of bandolier draped over its chest. It looked like a cross between Hagrid and a gorilla.

"Didn't I tell him years ago? Hokey religions and ancient weapons..." The creature, which Hermione identified to the redheads as a _Wookiee_, half-growled half-howled its assent.

While Harry Potter and Luke Skywalker grasped forearms in the way of ancient warriors, the announcer hailed Harry as the winner.

"We could use you, Young Potter," Luke said with a grin. "You've got some interesting moves."

"What moves," Harry countered. "I disarmed you and then knocked you out. It's nothing you can't do with your own magic, really."

"Not magic—the Force," the Jedi corrected him.

"Oh. Sorry," Harry apologised.

"Not at all. It was a fine match," Skywalker said genially.

"Yeah, it was." Harry held the light sabre in his hands, wondering if he should return it. He knew that he'd want his wand back if someone disarmed him. "Um…here. You should have this back."

"No, you won it in a fair fight," the Jedi disagreed. "Keep it. I'll just build a new one."

"Are you sure? I mean, this is really cool," Harry argued.

"Positive," Luke replied. He grasped Harry's arm again and looked him square in the eye. "May the Force be with you, Harry Potter."

"And with you, Luke Skywalker." The two competitors returned to their friends in the stands—Luke to his companions and Harry to Hermione, Ginny and Ron.

"Your toaster, Madame," Harry said, passing the light sabre to Hermione. He then turned and snogged Ginny senseless to celebrate his first victory.

As Harry, Ginny, Ron and Hermione left the arena a while later, they met a couple of very tall and very ugly hissing creatures in the corridor leading to the changing rooms and showers. The quartet eyed them warily.

"They didn't look much like heroes to me," Ginny commented, her eyes never leaving them.

"Slimy gits," Harry added in agreement and turned to his favourite know-it-all. "What _are _they?"

"Whatever they are, don't mention them to Hagrid, or he'd love to get his hands on a few of them to raise in the forest." Ron said

"They're Aliens," Hermione enlightened them. "Vicious creatures with a highly-potent acid for blood and no regard for any life form not their own. They reproduce by implanting a parasitic embryo inside a host-creature—preferably a humanoid mammal—to grow. The _baby _is _born _by tearing through the body of the host."

"So, hardly heroes then," Harry concluded with a nauseated gulp.

"Definitely not. They're probably just here to watch the tournament, provided they're not scouting for new breeding grounds," Hermione hoped.

After a refreshing shower (snogging Ginny had been the exhausting part while dispatching the Jedi hadn't), Harry joined his friends in the stands to watch a couple of matches between other fictional heroes who'd entered. "So who's coming up next?"

"It's The-Man-With-No-Name versus 'Dirty' Harry Callahan," Hermione told them and giggled "This ought to be interesting."

Ginny burst into laughter. "_Dirty _Harry? Is that the long-lost evil twin of _Over-The-Top-Honourable _Harry sitting next to me here?"

"And The-Man-With-No-Name," Ron asked. "That's really lame. Voldy was scary because he _had_ a name no one dared _use!_"

Two men, bearing remarkable resemblance to one another, entered the arena and were presented. The-Man-With-No-Name appeared to be a cowboy, preferring to allow his gun to speak for him rather than his mouth. The other man was a bad-tempered trigger-happy San Francisco cop. The two men immediately engaged in an action-packed shoot-out, which ended when Callahan shot the cowboy with his .44 magnum side-arm. Falling to his knees, the cowboy doffed his poncho, revealing a steel plate he'd tied to his body underneath, perforated with several holes.

"Damn. Looks like Mr Smith, Mr Wesson and me lost today," he said regretfully as he began to cough.

Dirty Harry approached him warily, his steely eyes squinted. "Punk, this is a Smith & Wesson .44 magnum pistol, the most powerful handgun in the world. Before you walked into this arena today, you should've asked, 'Do I feel lucky?'"

The cowboy withdrew the stub of a cigar from a pocket in his shirt, put in his mouth, and lit it. He took a puff or two before eyeing the sarcastic law-enforcement officer. "Swell," he said, and fell to the ground.

Ron glanced sidelong at Harry. "You could've taken both of them in a heartbeat."

"Muggles with guns against a wizard with a wand—right. That's not much of a challenge," Harry sneered, shaking his raven head. "Ron, do you realise that either one of them could take down either one of us with one shot before we got a chance to so much as point our wands, let alone incant a spell? I love magic, but it's not everything."

"Blimey," Ron replied. "Are guns that dangerous?"

"The guns themselves, no; people who pick them up and point them randomly, yes," Harry said. "But any gun should be handled with caution and respect, just the same as a wand. Muggle policemen like Dirty Harry over there are trained to respect and care for their weapons and to never use it unless they absolutely have to."

"We could've ended the war a lot sooner if he had a few of those .44 mandums," Ron concluded.

Harry's heart ached a little at that. Ron was right, of course. If they'd had access to firearms, they might have been able to decimate Voldemort's minions in much shorter order, which might have led to a quicker destruction of the Horcruxes and the ultimate destruction of the dark tosser himself with one shot. _Talk about a power the dark lord knew not_. "It's _magnum_, Ron, but since we were all under the Muggle age of majority, we could never have got hold of any without using magic to steal them. Besides, without the proper ammunition, guns are little more than blunt instruments. Our wands don't need anything but our magic to fuel them."

"Still," Ron began again. "They might be useful."

Harry chose to leave it there. He didn't know enough about Muggle firearms to engage his best mate in a competent conversation about them and frankly, he didn't much like guns since his Uncle Vernon had such a fetish for them, especially shotguns. _Perhaps he's compensating for something. Dudley is an only child, after all. _He allowed himself a sardonic smile at the thought of the 'Derringer' behind Vernon Dursley's zip.

A few matches later, Ginny snuggled up close to Harry and whispered into his ear. Chills ran down his spine and goose-pimples rose along his arms and over his torso. "C'mon Love. Let's head back to our hotel so you can show me that you're _Dirtiest _Harry." Harry growled seductively and dragged Ginny off to the giggles and snickers of their two best friends.

The next day, Harry's first match was against a bloke in a rather poncey blue, red and gold leotard with a red cape. The man definitely had the muscular body to fill out the spandex, but in Harry's opinion, it was a bit too much. He looked to Hermione, who he knew had already sussed out the information that Harry would need to win.

"So Harry, you're up against Superman. He can take any physical pounding, he's wicked fast and strong and has a number of special abilities. He isn't known as _The Man of Steel _for nothing."

"So how do I beat him…or do I?"

"Well, all you have to do is a bit of simple conjuring, really," Hermione declared and whispered something into Harry's ear. With a smile, Harry made his way to the arena.

In the stands, Ginny worried for her wizard as the much-bigger and definitely-stronger opponent, despite the poncey outfit, literally flew circles around Harry during introductions, cape billowing behind him.

"In this match, it's Harry Potter, vanquisher of Jedi Knights and dark wizards versus The Man of Steel—Superman, super-hero and guardian of Metropolis, aka Clark Kent, mild-mannered reporter for the Daily Planet." Superman shot like a bullet toward Harry, who Disapparated out of harm's way and immediately conjured a greenish gem-like stone.

He stood stock-still and held it in his hands over his head. Superman fell to the ground and paled a pasty-white. Harry, cradling the stone against his chest, walked toward the fallen hero. "Do you yield, sir," Harry asked with aristocratic politeness, almost Malfoy-like in his demeanour.

"Where... did you... get…that," Superman gasped. "It's…Kryptonite…not found…on Earth."

"Just a bit of basic conjuration," Harry said. He then flicked his wand and conjured a glass of pumpkin juice that floated mid-air. "Thirsty work, this. Would you mind keeping my rock safe for me while I drink?" Harry was about to hand Superman the piece of Kryptonite he'd conjured.

"No…I yield. Just…take it…away," Superman begged breathlessly.

"Well, if you're sure," Harry said with a smile and banished the Kryptonite. He reached a hand down to help the down super-hero to his feet. "I'm Harry Potter."

"Kal-El," Superman replied. "But most folks know me as Clark Kent. Kryptonite is indigenous to Krypton, my home world. It's poison to my kind."

"Sorry about that," Harry replied. "Hermione said—"

"Don't worry about it, Harry. It was a fair fight and no harm done," the super-hero replied. "But if you'll excuse me, a friend is waiting for me. She's a stickler for punctuality."

"I can understand that. Have a safe trip, then," Harry replied, shaking Kent's hand. With a shout, Superman took to the air and shot out of the arena like a rocket. Harry was declared winner of the match as he left the arena with his glass of pumpkin juice in hand to join his friends in the stands.

Some snogging later, it was time for Harry's second match that day. Again, Hermione provided the background information he would need to win the match. "All right, Harry, you're up against a Cyberdyne Systems Model 101 Series 800 Terminator," she read from the tournament program.

"Uh-huh," Harry said. He had no idea what any of that meant, since he'd rarely been allowed to watch telly and had never gone to the cinema growing up at the Dursleys. However _terminator _didn't bode well for his immediate future.

"I guess an adequate description is that it's a really tough robot, covered in human flesh and programmed to kill," Hermione told him. "It's a weapon of destruction in the form of a nearly-indestructible cyborg."

"It wants to kill me," Harry asked. "Doesn't sound like a hero to me!"

"Hmm…too many copyright issues to sort through for that," Hermione said before taking in the inquisitive faces of her friends. " So no, it won't kill you."

"If it's indestructible, how do I beat it," Harry asked with a gulp.

"Oh, you'll think of something," Hermione said in a rather airy tone reminding of Luna.

Rather dubious about this match, Harry entered the arena where the rather intimidating hominid robot stood waiting patiently. "Once again, we are proud to present Harry Potter, vanquisher of all opposition so far versus _Uncle Bob_, or as he prefers to be called, T-800, vanquisher of whatever he's programmed to vanquish."

"Dickwad," the Terminator growled with a sort of Teutonic accent, turning its computerised eyes to the commentator.

As the match began, Harry didn't understand how Hermione could be so calm about him facing off against a mean maiming murder-machine. He considered his options and decided against blasting spells or, although he'd never use it, the killing curse. He reckoned none of them would do much good anyway, since _Uncle Bob_ wasn't human.

"_Fera Verto_," Harry finally shouted with a flick of his wand. Although his quick transfiguration was far from perfect, it was adequate. Instead of a Terminator there stood an old oak barrel in its place. This particular spell was intended for animals to turn them into water goblets—rather pointless, really—but it did the job Harry needed it to do. _He's a big bloke and a barrel's bigger than a goblet. Makes sense, I guess_. "_Expulso!_"

In a fierce explosion, the barrel was blasted into oblivion, winning Harry the match. As the announcer declared Harry's victory, he began to feel bad about having blown the cyborg to bits. Suddenly, he had an idea. He drew his wand and pointed it at the largest part of the robot he could find.

"Reparo!"

Immediately, the metal chassis reassembled itself and Terminator, sans the human elements, arose to stand before the young wizard.

"Well done, human," it said with an electronic voice. "You are to be commended." The cyborg offered a metallic hand, which Harry took, albeit gingerly.

"Erm…thanks…sir," Harry replied, extracting his hand from the machine's surprisingly gentle grip. "Sorry about the blasting hex."

"You used your talents and weapons well, human. Farewell," it said and sauntered off past the Aliens still lurking in the corridor.

"That was brilliant work, Harry," Hermione beamed. "I _knew _you'd come up with something!"

"Uncle Bob's not a bad sort for a killer, really," Harry chuckled. "Honestly, I thought this tournament would prove a greater challenge. Is that why you didn't give me any advice Hermione?"

"Harry, you're a great wizard and you don't need me to tell you what to do," she replied before looking sternly at him "Now, go and snog that witch of yours before she hexes us all to Avalon and back."

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That evening, Harry and Ron each sipped glasses of Firewhiskey, while their respective witches underwent their customary beautification ritual before dinner.

"Harry, I've wondered something. Where do all these blokes come from? The ones you're competing against."

"Um…well, some of them come from Muggle comic books, some from Muggle cinema, and others from fiction books," Harry replied. "Listen, when Hermione brought this up, she said something weird about our world."

"Oh? What," the red-haired wizard replied, taking another sip of his drink.

Harry thought carefully before he spoke. He wasn't sure how his friend would take the news that Hermione claimed that their entire existence was a product of a Muggle author's imagination. "Ron, you're Hermione's boyfriend. What are her parents' names?"

"Mr and Mrs Granger," Ron asked.

"That'd be them, yes."

"Truthfully, we're not on a first-name basis yet. I think they still think I've had a bad influence on 'Mione, leading them to their involuntary stay in Australia. Why do you ask?"

"It was something about a Muggle and some books I was mentioned in," Harry replied.

"Well, I'm pants at Muggle studies and the only books I take an interest in are the kinds that turn Hermione on."

Harry raised his eyebrows at Ron. He would have been shocked, but he was more than aware of Ron's and Hermione's randiness. It almost rivalled Ginny's and his own. "Books do that?"

"_The Arousing Book of Arousal _is a real gem, my friend," Ron grinned. "_Willing Witches' Wistful Wishes _is also a good one."

"I'm glad Hermione's books make you happy, mate," Harry snorted.

"You have no idea," Ron snickered, winking a blue eye at his friend.

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The following day, Harry entered the arena for the final, this time introduced as terminator of Terminators and dark lords. His opponent was Dr Jean Grey, a rather good-looking and statuesque woman who didn't seem to carry any weapons of any kind. Harry recalled the brief discussion with Hermione about this person:

"_She wields enormous powers and is a skilled Legilimens. I think she does all right with Charms and Transfiguration, too," Hermione said._

"_So, she's a witch?"_

"_No. At least not really."_

"_So…how do I win?"_

"_Honestly, I have no idea. You're going to have to go with your instincts."_

As soon as the match began, Harry felt an attack on his mind with a tremendous force. His Occlumency shields held, which seemed to surprise the good doctor.

"Don't be distracted because she's a redhead," Ginny shouted.

The next attack was also shockingly powerful. _Bloody hell, Ginny's right. The Potters and redheads. Well, this is no time to be a gentlewizard. _Harry raised another shield, which held while the two locked in a battle of force of will, neither willing to yield to the other.

In the stands, a very bald man surrounded by a few rather interesting people sat close to Ginny, Hermione and Ron commentating on the progress of their champion. Clearly they were friends of Jean Grey's.

"He stands up to her. Impressive," the bald man said.

"But can he beat her, Charles," a wolfish man asked gruffly. "This kid's got somethin'."

That's when it happened. A beautiful song heralded the arrival of a being Harry recognised immediately. "Fawkes! Did I summon you?"

Fawkes flew around Jean, whose body glowed with the heat of the power radiating from her. Harry worried that she might burst into flame, but she never did. "Is it a real..." Jean gasped in surprise.

"He's really a Phoenix, if that's what you're asking," Harry confirmed. "Get her out of here, Fawkes."

With a melodic cry, the Phoenix erupted in a ball of fire and vanished, taking Jean Grey with him.

"Harry Potter wins," the commentator called enthusiastically.

Ron, Hermione and Ginny bounded into the arena to celebrate Harry's victory, followed by Jean's friends.

"Where's Jean? What have you done with my wife," an excitable bloke with sunglasses asked dangerously.

"She's with Fawkes, he'll bring her back soon enough. I promise you she's perfectly safe," Harry explained. "He's a Phoenix."

He was right. A minute later Jean and Fawkes emerged from another ball of fire. Fawkes perched on her shoulder and trilled a comforting song. "Fawkes has taken a liking to you," Harry noted.

"Yes, I see that. Although I lost the match, I seem to have made a new friend," Jean said. "He's beautiful…and you, young man, are a very special wizard."

Harry and Jean thanked each other for a good match and greeted and introduced one another's friends before the World Champion was to be declared. "Thanks, Dr Grey," Harry replied, shaking her hand. "Um…are you a natural Legilimens or did you have to train?"

"Le—legilimens," she repeated. "What's Legilimens."

"A Legilimens is a witch or wizard who can sort of read thoughts," Hermione explained. "Some can do it naturally, while others must train for years to master it."

"Oh…well…I'm not a witch, but I've been able to do this since I was a small child," Jean explained. "I guess you could say I'm a rather powerful psychic. It's my Mutant-power."

"Mutant-power," Ron said. "So you're not human?"

"Oh yes, we are, Mr Weasley," the bald man said. "I'm Professor Charles Xavier. We're just different, like you magicals are different. And like you, we're often misunderstood and persecuted. I have a school that trains Mutant children to harness and use their powers safely and for good."

"Sounds like Hogwarts," Ginny said. "We go there to learn how to use our magic safely and for good. Did you ever meet Professor Albus Dumbledore?"

"No, my dear. I'm sorry I haven't had the pleasure," Professor Xavier said. He turned to Jean, who had focused her attention on Fawkes while the others chatted. "Jean? Are you ready to leave? We must return to the school before Rogue and Gambit tear it down."

"Storm can handle them, Charles," Jean laughed. "But yes. We do need to get back. Harry, it's been a pleasure. Hermione, nice research. Keep it up. It's been fun. Take care, kids."

"Keep in touch, yeah," Harry said.

"We'd be delighted," Xavier agreed. "Logan, Scott, Jean, let's go."

"Harry Potter, you are hereby declared the World Champion Fictional Hero! Congratulations," the announcer's voice boomed through the stadium. "However, due to copyright restrictions, there shall be no merchandising or cinema rights for this on any level. The most you can hope for is that some ruddy fanfic author witnessed this tournament and will post a story on some Muggle website. Stand and be recognised, Harry James Potter!"

"What does all that mean," Harry asked Hermione as the crowd cheered and celebrated.

"That you've successfully downplayed your heroics," she replied.

"Good."

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Harry and Ginny joined Ron and Hermione for breakfast a few days after returning home from the championship. "You know Hermione, it was all worth it," Harry said, sipping his tea.

"I'm glad you think so. I had a really good time," Hermione replied. "The X-Men are simply the best, aren't they?"

"Yes, but I was referring to your toasts. They're so great."

"And the fast food was great, except for a dodgy place serving something weird called _Gagh,_" Ron said. "Looked like Flobberworms."

"So what do we do today," Ginny asked.

Hermione grinned mischievously. "Let's go and ask my parents about their names, and watch some movies," she suggested. The others nodded their agreement and Hermione smiled at the thought of showing them _Star Wars_, _Superman_, _X-men_, _Alien_, some Eastwood Spaghetti-Westerns, and _The Terminator_. _I wonder if I can find any Harry Potter movies…_


End file.
